


You Better Throw the First Punch; Make it a Good One

by HankTalking



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Blood Kink, Deaf Character, Fist Fights, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:15:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28635336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HankTalking/pseuds/HankTalking
Summary: an old thing i'm proud of and reposting. now updated :)
Relationships: Lindsay Tuggey Jones/Michael Jones
Kudos: 4





	You Better Throw the First Punch; Make it a Good One

In the burning daylight, there were boxing gloves and sterile punching bags all over, dozens of public gyms at Michael’s fingertips, every plastic stitch present and screaming to be used. He never touched a single one. By night, Michael left, abandoning the white fluorescent lights of public exertion and descended into the worst of what Los Santos had to offer. There was a smaller array now that he’d come to the darker side, but Michael had a favored haunt among them—down near 6th St., past the stairs, tell the man that Lionel sent you. The club was dim, foul with old blood and emptied stomachs, but the threat of violence pricked against Michael’s skin like nothing could anymore. The buzzing in his head had become part of his life now, no escape except fighting strangers in the dark until someone gave in. Or died.

He didn’t tell the crew where he went. They could all go to hell.

He put his name down and waited. No one knew him here, no one gave a shit who he worked for or what he could do. They were all equals in this shithole, all ugly reflections of one another—a bunch of fuckups who just wanted fight back. Sitting among them, Michael began to bind his hands. None of that safe, sanitary, gloved bullshit, just hard-packing of bones and muscle, protecting your knuckles by forcing them together. Making those bitches support each other whether they like it or not.

Someone signed up to take Michael on. He climbed into the ring, landing on concrete with a _smack_ , remembering what is was like to have his head hitting it instead of his feet. His opponent was tall, broad shouldered, maybe it a bit more toned than most of the people in the club since regulars usually consisted of streetrats looking for an outlet.

Michael cracked his neck, and squared up.

Fighting here was breathing after drowning. Every twitch of Michael’s feet, every anticipated dodge, and he felt more alive than any day since he’d lost his hearing. He couldn’t rely on explosions or gunfights anymore to get his fix, couldn’t bleed Geoff dry for any chance to get his rocks off when the boss was so determined to keep him “safe.” He couldn’t heist without comms, couldn’t make deals with comms…every word true, but every time they said _comms_ , Michael understood they meant _your ears_.

A hook caught him under the jaw, and he went down. The buzzing was gone now, knocked clear out of him as he rolled on his side to watch the crowd cheer silently, a collection of grey and brown bugs swarming around him, demanding he either die or make himself useful.

Well. No time like the present. Michael staggered to his feet, spitting a mouthful of blood from when he’d bit his tongue.

Another fist hit him hard, bruising his cheekbone, but he didn’t fall this time. Instead he went back, fighting with every burned fiber in his sorry excuse for a body, the anger boiling in him and boiling _over_ , slamming him forward until the other fighter was down on the ground. Michael waited, daring them to try him again.

They didn’t.

The crowd cheered, bets exchanged hands, and Michael heaved in the center of the ring. But the only thing that mattered now was how sharp everything was, how he was free from that fucking noise, at least for a time. Everything was real now, worth noticing, and that’s what let him see them for the first time.

Lindsay stood among them, their hands together in noiseless clapping, a smirk at the corner of their mouth. They looked like they belonged, which was the most jarring fact—he’d never seen them in anything but the nines, so without makeup or heels, who could blame him for missing them in this mess?

He hauled himself out of the ring, pulling on his shirt as he melted back into his fellow degenerates. It didn’t take long to grab Lindsay, pulling on their arm and dragging them further from the lights, only stopping when the two of them were gone from the throngs of people.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, shoving them away from him.

They smiled in spite of, or maybe because of, the fury in his voice. “Here for a good fight.”

His eyes flicked over their lips, watching the words take form. He’d learned, steadily, over the past year, maybe the only thing he’d studied hard in his entire life. Gavin had offered to teach him sign language once upon a time, but he’d refused, the idea of being so _obvious_ hurting him like a stone in his shoe. Now he worked overtime, catching meaning and putting the thoughts together in a scrambled mess.

“Did Geoff put you up to this?” he snarled.

They rolled their eyes. “Yeah, because all I do all day is suck Geoff’s dick.”

Michael snorted, but chose to believe them. No matter how much of a helicopter Geoff was, he didn’t assign tails to his own people. “Fine. Then why _are_ you here. No bullshit.”

Shrugging, they said, “like I said. I came to watch. No bullshit.”

Slowly, he let the snake inside him uncoil, loosening enough that he started pacing instead burning like a stake. Lindsay had never taken an interest in Michael before, nor he and them, and their presence in this place was a bright red flag in Michael’s vision. But believe or not, at least they weren't here to tell him to stop.

“Plus, wanted to check out the new tattoo,” they added, almost as an afterthought.

Michael stopped pacing, unconsciously rolling his shoulder where the ink still hurt. He’d got it a month ago, here in this club—a stick of dynamite in one year commemoration.

He glared at them. “Don’t follow me any more,” was all he said, before storming out, his fists clenched so hard the tape turned red.

* * *

He thought going to a different club would shake them loose. He was wrong.

“I told you to stop following me,” he said, after finding them outside the ring, hoodie pulled over their (now pink, gone was the faded turquoise) hair.

“I never agreed to that.”

He breathed through gritted teeth, but his urge to hit anything was dulled by the post-match euphoria. “I don’t know what the fuck to do with you,” he admitted, and he felt his voice shake. Sometimes, he’d worried he’d forget how to speak all together—one day he’d wake up and not remember the sound of his own voice, how to make words go the right way. One day they wouldn’t be able to find any work he could do and he’d be back on the outside. “I just don’t fucking know.”

“You don’t have to do anything with me,” Lindsay said, and god why did that smile look good on such a bitch. “I can meld. Wallflower it.”

He didn’t say anything. It wasn’t a big deal. And when he got back in the ring, he told himself it was because it didn’t bother him enough to make it one.

* * *

“You don’t have to keep pretending to be a fuckup,” they told him once. It was before a fight, the two of them sitting in the corner of a filthy pit while Michael bound his hands.

He laughed. “Pretending? I’m a high school dropout who’s only off the streets because he tried to mug the right guy. I’m a cosmic accident Lindsay. Don’t try your psyche-bullshit on me.”

“No bullshit,” Lindsay smiled. They said it like a joke, even though it was a decidedly unfunny statement only worth saying for self-referential value.

Despite the truth of all that, Michael had to keep a twinge out the corner of his mouth, the barest hint that maybe their company wasn't so bad. Sometimes “Whatever. I’m going to punch some dickwad to keep me from going crazy. Wish me luck.”

He caught their words out of the corner of his eye.

“Alas, I cannot. For you see: I am that dickwad.”

Michael gawked at Lindsay, his foot still half turned towards the pit. “What?”

“I signed up to fight you,” they said, gesturing toward the board. “Thought it looked fun.”

He narrowed his eyes, wondering what angle they were playing now, and knowing no matter what it was it was stupid. “ _You_? You’ve never fought a day in your life.”

“I might surprise you,” they said with a wink, and Michael wondered for a hot second if Lindsay actually knew what they were doing. Then the previous combatants were dragged out of the room, and it was time for the next match to start. “That’s our cue!”

As they circled each other in the ring, Michael took in a full view of them. They was down to their tanktop to match his shirtlessness, their stance wild and unpracticed. A strange energy built in Michael’s chest, the unknown quantity different than fighting a stranger. This was something new, a challenge-

He drew back his fist-

* * *

“You’re a fucking moron.”

Lindsay drew the tissue away from their broken nose in order to look offended. “Hey! Untrue. I am just...lacking in stamina.”

“You walked into _the_ most dangerous fight club in _the_ most dangerous city in the world with absolutely _no_ fucking combat experience and almost died after one punch. You’re a fucking moron.”

They pressed the tissue back to their face and mumbled, “I thought you’d let me win. Like it’d be romantic and shit.”

Michael’s voice spilled out of him in a laughing hiccup, and he wondered if the warmth in his chest was audible. “Idiot,” he smiled softly. “Stupid idiot.”

After Lindsay had regained consciousness, they’d come out here into the alley, the winter chill making the night just cold enough to hurt their lungs. Lindsay had gone through all the tissues in their purse by now, and blood had spilled onto their upper lip again in the brief second they'd taken the pressure away. Now they looked pathetic, bloody nose purple and swelling beneath their hand, words obscured when they tried to tell Michael something. They said it again, and he rolled his eyes, reaching forward to tug away the gross-ass tissue.

He wasn’t sure when his hand stopped touching theirs and glided against their cheek instead. His thumb ran along their lip—wet, sticky—leaving a trail along the side of their face, only stopping when they pushed it aside and leaned into him.

It was the most bitter kiss Michael had ever had, copper running down into his mouth as they pulled at each other’s faces. Lindsay squeaked in pain but shoved into him all the same, the two bodies tender from abuse and cold. Red stuck between them, an open wound in an infected city.


End file.
